


The Returned

by MasterTLA



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood, Established Relationship, Everyone Is Alive, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Sad, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-10 09:22:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3285098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MasterTLA/pseuds/MasterTLA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What the hell is this?" the Sheriff questioned, rounding angrily on the vet.</p><p>"This is Stiles." The Stiles-shaped creature waved in a painfully Stiles-like manner.</p><p>"Stiles is dead," the Sheriff replied. "And this isn't fucking funny." He never disliked the vet, but now he was having a change of heart. He glanced at Derek who was staring at the creature, eyes wide. He placed a firm hand on the back of the man's neck and squeezed; he couldn't miss the wolf's trembling. "Let's go, Derek." He turned them both away so they could leave.</p><p>He froze when a cold hand grabbed his own free hand. His eyes followed pale fingers up a black-clothed arm and landed on pleading brown eyes. They were so painfully like Stiles' that it physically hurt to look at them. He pulled his hand free and turned to the vet. "Explain. Right now." He released the werewolf who looked at the vet and nowhere else.</p><p>"With enough love, even the dead can be returned."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**TLA**

When Stiles finds himself stirring from what feels like a deep sleep, the last thing he remembers is pain. Pain so sharp he could hardly breathe from it. It was a lot like drowning. He seriously thought he was going to die.

Then, the pain stopped suddenly.

There was nothing.

The next thing he knows, he's waking up in the dark. In a tight, confined space. It's pitch black. He can't see anything at all- not even his own hand right in front of his face.

He lifted his hands up to feel for the roof. It was soft, plush, cushioned... There's only one thing he could think of like that. He banged his hands on the ceiling. "Help me!" he screamed.

No sound came out.

The panic started to settle in the pit of his chest. He could hear his own rapid breaths and the increasingly frantic beating of his hands on the lid of his prison. But he couldn't hear his own voice? He banged and banged, harder and harder.

Where was he? Where was the pack? Were they okay? Were they trapped too?

Why was it so fucking dark!?

_Crack._

His heart leaped from his chest at the splintering sound of wood. Was he breaking free? He hit harder and harder until he felt bits of debris. With the debris came the smell of dirt- he could taste it in his mouth.

So he was right. He was in a coffin. Underground.

'It's okay, Stiles,' he encouraged himself. 'You're okay. You're just underground. You might be buried alive but at least you're alive. Calm down.' He took a deep breath.

He was calmer when he found the break he'd made and began making it bigger. Soon, he could feel his fingers dig into cool dirt. It was still loose, but the cool touch meant he probably wasn't very close to the surface. If whoever had buried him was going to go through the trouble of putting him in a coffin then they probably put him six feet under too. He had a ways to go before he was free.

'You're going to get out. You're going to get free.'

**TLA**

He lost track of time as he freed himself. He didn't know what time he had been put underground but when he was pulling himself out of the ground it was dark. The moon was high in the sky, the stars were twinkling like nothing was wrong. It was just enough for him to see; it was actually bright compared to the coffin.

He stood and looked around as he brushed himself off. He was in the Beacon Hills Cemetery. He knew it well. He walked the paths often to visit-

His mother's grave.

He was buried next to his mother's grave.

He stepped away hurriedly, tripping over his own feet. He hit the ground, landing hard on his ass and hands. He easily recognized the smooth script that spelled out his mother's name. Her birthday, the day of her death... The words his father had chosen so carefully. _Shed not for her the bitter tear/ Nor give the heart to vain regret/ Tis but mere ashes that lie here/ The gem that filled it sparkles yet._

With an odd sense of horror, he looked down at himself. He could pick out this suit anywhere. It was the same one he'd worn to his mom's funeral. It was the only one he had. His eyes followed the length of his body to the shiny new dress shoes on his feet. He glanced to the right to see his mom's grave. He turned his attention to the left.

In Loving Memory

Stiles Stilinski

_No pain, no grief, no anxious fear/ can reach our loved one sleeping here._

Stiles wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. For one thing, his real name wasn't on the stone which kind of made him want to laugh. For another thing, he recognized the little poem on his stone. He had picked it out when he was trying to help his dad find one for his mom. He had made his dad promise that if they couldn't use it for mom's grave then they had to use it for his. He had been younger then; death wasn't a thing he had actually worried about for himself.

He traced his own inscription with a trembling finger. It suddenly hit him that his dad buried him. His dad thought he was dead. Stiles had personally experienced the crushing months of despair that followed his mother's death. His dad had been even worse than a wreck.

Stiles stood up hurriedly, fully intent on assuring his dad that he wasn't actually dead. But wait.

If he had a headstone next to his mom then he actually had been dead. Why wasn't he now?

He was breathing. He definitely felt the thundering beat of his own heart when he was trapped. He couldn't talk, but that was it.

Deaton. He needed to see Deaton.

**TLA**

Derek's ears twitched when he heard the Sheriff's key slide into the lock on the front door. He stood from his spot in Stiles' room and ran down the stairs to greet the man when he walked in.

"Still walking around on four legs I see," the Sheriff said as he pulled his jacket off and hung it by the door. He dropped his keys in the little bowl Stiles had insisted on placing next to the coat rack, and he pretended not to notice the dusty key-chain to a powder blue Jeep. Despite his words he still scratched the large black wolf behind its ears.

For some reason, it was just easier like this. Derek didn't have to pretend that his human life mattered anymore. He didn't have to go to work, he didn't have to talk to anyone, he didn't have to go anywhere alone, and he didn't have to cry anymore. The Sheriff didn't have to be alone, and he didn't have to deal with the awkwardness of living with a human Derek. He loved the guy like his own, but it would have been weird just the two of them.

They could be a man and a wolf; simple as that.

John walked to the kitchen to warm up one of the many casseroles he was still receiving on a weekly basis. Was he really that unreliable? As he made himself a plate and then put some on a plate for Derek, he couldn't help but think about what Stiles would think of them now. They didn't make a pretty picture.

One tired shell of a man shaped like a Sheriff and another sad shell of a man shaped like a wolf. Eating chicken casserole from the crazy cat lady down the street.

When they were done eating and the plates were put away, the Sheriff sat back on the couch with a beer. "We're lost without him, huh?" he questioned.

Derek jumped up on the couch and put his head on the man's knee. He huffed in agreement. The Sheriff's hand was large and tough, a lot like his own father's, as it ran through the fur on his head and neck.

See? They couldn't do that if he was in his human form.

**TLA**

"I'm sorry," Dr. Deaton said at the chime of the bell above the front door to the clinic, "But we've closed for the night." He looked up from the papers he was reviewing only to drop them and stand. "Stiles?"

His usual greeting was a snarky, 'What's up, Doc?' But he still couldn't talk. He waved awkwardly, kind of stiff. How long had he been 'dead'?

Deaton moved from the desk he'd been working at and approached the dirty young man slowly. "I'm sure you'll understand if I say I'm surprised to see you." He stood right in front of Stiles who shrugged. "Do you remember what happened?"

Stiles tried his best to recall anything besides pain but couldn't do it. There was pain, and then there was nothing.

He isn't sure if he wants to remember the pack being there or not. On one hand, he really hopes he didn't die alone; that was always one of his biggest fears. Even before they found out his mom was sick. It's why he insisted on being at the hospital with her whenever he could. The thought of her slipping away with no one there to hold her hand terrified him.

And then, on the other hand, he never wanted the pack to see him die. He knew they worried about him. Every little scratch or bruise he got made them feel guilty because they could heal in one breath what it would take him days to heal. He had nightmares about the people he loved watching him fade away in the hospital like his mom or trying to will bleeding wounds closed in the forest. He knew that losing him would upset them but watching him go would destroy them. Especially his dad and Derek. They would blame themselves even if he tripped over a root and impaled himself on a branch.

He frowned and shook his head. He snatched a pen from Deaton's pocket and grabbed the closet thing of paper he could. He scrawled roughly on a pamphlet about cats. It would have been kind of funny any other time. **what am I**

The vet sighed. He had an idea, but really there were a few possibilities. "That's a good question. Come to the back with me. Let's see what we can do."

**TLA**

The Sheriff promised that he wouldn't change anything in Stiles' room. He knew how much the scent meant to Derek, but he also wasn't ready. He forgot, almost every day, that Stiles wasn't coming home. He would catch himself sitting up, waiting for a guilty son to walk through the door with excuses to why he was late. He would make enough coffee for two people instead of one. He would look up whenever a deputy knocked on his office door at the station expecting to see Stiles there with some sort of salad to feed him for lunch. He would find himself dialing familiar numbers on the phone to tell Stiles that he would be home late. He would hear Stiles' voice-mail and forget that he was dead.

And then he would remember.

And then it was like losing his son all over again.

He downed the Scotch he poured for himself and frowned when his cellphone rang. It was a little late for callers. He winced when he heard Stiles' voice in his head. _It's a little late for Scotch._

"Stilinski," he said, answering the call. If it was so late then it must be for work.

_"Sheriff, it's Alan Deaton,"_ from the vet. He was also, according to Stiles, the werewolf guru. _"Is Derek with you? Can you both come to the clinic? It's rather important."_

The man sounded grim. The Sheriff looked up when he felt a shift in the air. Derek was there, all human, but he was running upstairs presumably for clothes if his white ass was anything to judge by. The Sheriff tried not to chuckle, wishing he could share this with Stiles. "We'll be there soon." He ended the call and stood to grab his keys. "We can take the cruiser!" he called up the stairs.

**TLA**

Stiles watched the vet hang up his phone with a click. "They'll be here shortly." Stiles nodded and twirled a string on his pants nervously. Deaton had assured him that he wasn't dangerous to either his dad or Derek, but he wouldn't say anything else. Stiles supposed it made sense; lord knows the vet wouldn't tell a story twice. Looks like Stiles would find out what the hell was going on when his dad and Derek did.

He dusted off his pants when he noticed how dirty they were. It gave him something to do until he heard the vet clear his throat. "Would you like to go to the bathroom? You can clean yourself up a bit. I'm sorry but I don't have any clothes for you."

Stiles nodded his head and offered a smile that he hoped said it was okay. He walked off to the nearest bathroom and flipped on the light. He didn't look in the mirror until the door was closed behind him.

The first thing he noticed was dirt. He was filthy, but that made sense because he dug himself out of a hole in the ground. Gross. He turned on the sink and grabbed a bunch of paper towels. He needed to fix this. He wasn't sure how long he'd been gone but he definitely needed to look a little bit better when his dad and Derek got... here...

His neck.

He froze, horrified, at the hideous scar that went from just beneath his chin to beneath the collar of his shirt. He undid the buttons and loosened his tie. The scar stopped right between his collar bones. It looked like... like...

It looked like his throat had been ripped out.

Was that how he died? He gently traced the rough edges with trembling fingers. At least he knew why he couldn't speak.

He looked away and did his best not to see the ugly scar as he cleaned himself up. He would need to get some scarves or something and some bandages before his dad and Derek showed up. They didn't need to see him like this.

He was about to leave the bathroom when he heard the chime of the front door. The familiar sound of his dad's voice was almost enough to make him cry. He wanted to rush out and grab the man in a hug, but he couldn't. He wanted to hurry out and kiss the life out of Derek, but he didn't.

**TLA**

"Good evening, Alan," the Sheriff greeted as he walked through the door, Derek on his heels. "You said there was something important?"

The vet nodded his head grimly. It looked like he was about to speak but the werewolf cut him off before he could. "Who else is here?" he questioned, hearing an extra heartbeat. He sniffed but couldn't place the scent. It had the distinct spicy-sweet smell of magic, and it had the musty smell of dirt. It wasn't something he'd ever scented before.

The Sheriff drew his gun. "Where is he?"

The vet shook his head. "He isn't dangerous," he assured. "There's no threat. He's just gone to the bathroom." He sighed. "I would like to ask you to put the gun away, Sheriff. Derek, please don't attack when he joins us. You will both be surprised, scared even. But what you see is real. It is no trick." He lowered his voice. "I know this may be hard for you, but it's harder for him. Try to remember that."

Just as Derek was about to tell the man to cut his cryptic crap, the bathroom door opened. The figure was just a dark shape from the harsh white lights behind him and the dark hall of the closed clinic. The Sheriff put his gun away as not to scare the guy (shoulders that broad had to be a man).

Derek didn't know what he was expecting, but watching Stiles awkwardly grin at them wasn't fucking it. But that couldn't possibly be Stiles. They buried him.

In that suit...

"What the hell is this?" the Sheriff questioned, rounding angrily on the vet.

The doctor sighed. "This is Stiles." The Stiles-shaped creature waved in a painfully Stiles-like manner.

"Stiles is dead," the Sheriff replied. "And this isn't fucking funny." He never disliked the vet, but now he was having a change of heart. He glanced at Derek who was staring at the creature, eyes wide. He placed a firm hand on the back of the man's neck and squeezed; he couldn't miss the wolf's trembling. "Let's go, Derek." He turned them both away so they could leave.

He froze when a cold hand grabbed his own free hand. His eyes followed pale fingers up a black-clothed arm and landed on pleading brown eyes. They were so painfully like Stiles' that it physically hurt to look at them. He pulled his hand free and turned to the vet. "Explain. Right now." He released the werewolf who looked at the vet and nowhere else.

Deaton gently grabbed Stiles' shoulder and pulled him back. The Sheriff and Derek needed space. "This is Stiles," he said once again. "The supernatural community would call him a Returned." He turned to Stiles. "Stiles, do you know what the most powerful magic in the world is?" It was one of the first lessons he taught the younger man. Stiles raised his hands and shaped a heart with his fingers; Deaton smiled. "Yes, love." He turned back to the Sheriff and Derek. "Most people don't know that love is magic. They use it as a fairy tale, but it's the strongest and purest form of magic in the world.

With enough love, even the dead can be returned. That's what happened. You two, the pack, you all truly loved Stiles. That power brought him back. It's extremely rare for it to happen. When most people die only a couple of people truly love them, but Stiles touched many lives. His loss was truly felt by enough hearts to bring him back."

It was quiet for a minute until the Sheriff spoke up. Werewolves and other creatures of the night were one thing, his son being brought back to life was another. Stiles was gone. "If our love was enough then he wouldn't have died," the man said gruffly, voice threatening to break. He cleared his throat and grabbed Derek again. "Let's go." The wolf followed him easily.

Stiles watched them go, eyes welling with tears. He wanted to call out to them and bring them back but he couldn't even do that. He didn't remember being dead but it probably hurt a lot less than this. He looked at Deaton pitifully.

"Give them time," the man said softly. He placed a reassuring hand on Stiles' shoulder. "You were gone for six months."

Well, that answered that questioned at least. Stiles listened to the distant hum of his dad's cruiser fading away and grabbed the cat pamphlet and pen again. **teach me** , about the Returned, his death, his new life, all of it.

Deaton nodded. "Sleep first. You can stay at my place." He rolled his eyes at the surprised look on Stiles' face. "Yes, I have a place. Did you think I just lived here?" Stiles just grinned and shrugged. "Let's go," Deaton sighed..


	2. Chapter 2

**TLA**

Derek could feel the wolf just beneath the surface of his skin. This is what he had wanted all those months ago as he watched the pool of blood around the human's body spread wider and wider. He wanted to see Stiles standing in front of him with that stupid fucking grin on his face. He wanted the whole thing to be another nightmare. He wanted to wake up and hear Stiles laugh at him to 'Stop worrying so much, Sourwolf.'

But this was... Stiles was gone.

He was gone.

Right?

He had heard his family's frantic heartbeats even over the deafening sounds of their howls and screams. He heard them all slow to a stop, one by one, until all he could hear was his own thundering chest. He hadn't gotten the chance to hear Stiles' heartbeat slow. He didn't have the chance to feel those agonizing seconds of hope that Stiles was alright. His heartbeat had just stopped. It was there one second and gone the next. Not even the burnt out shell of his family home had been as silent as that fucking room without Stiles' heartbeat. He couldn't even hear his own.

He thought that maybe he was dead too. He had hoped for it. There shouldn't be Derek without Stiles. There _was_ no Derek without Stiles. He was an empty man-shaped hole that just happened to have the ability to turn into an empty wolf-shaped hole.

Stiles was dead. Stiles had been killed. Derek had watched the strange wolf grab his human mate. He watched sharp claws slide into pale flesh. He couldn't fight; he couldn't move; he couldn't breathe. He could only watch as Stiles' throat was ripped out. He could only see the horror in scared brown eyes quickly fade to a dull nothing. He could only smell the coppery scent of blood. He could only hear the frantic beating of the human's heart suddenly stop.

When the rogue dropped Stiles' body carelessly to the floor Derek remembers his giant smirk because he thought he'd won. That's when all Derek could do was roar and attack. The pack had searched for hours later and couldn't find all of the pieces of the body so they could get rid of the evidence.

Every inch of his skin was covered in blood when he fell beside the cooling body of his mate. His perfect, amazing, wonderful, everything.... Stiles....

He pulled the human into his lap even though he could barely see anything through the tears spilling down his cheeks. He wanted to scream. He wanted to roar. He wanted to howl. He wanted Stiles to wake up. He knew, felt in his heart, that only three of those four things could happen.

The pack was still fighting the other rogue wolves. He needed to help them. Even though he was no longer the alpha, he was still the strongest and oldest of the young pack. They needed him.

But he needed Stiles. He-

"Derek? Are you okay, son?"

Derek's eyes widened as he was pulled back into the present. The cruiser had stopped moving and was idling in the Stilinski driveway. He looked at the Sheriff. "I'm okay."

The man scoffed and shut the car off. "You're about as okay as I am," he said, pulling the keys from the ignition. He squeezed the back of Derek's neck. "I think I've had too much Scotch. What's your excuse?"

The wolf sighed into the comforting touch. "I'm dreaming again." Because too much alcohol or a dream is the only way either of them would see Stiles again short of death.

The Sheriff released him and got out of the car. "Me too, son. Me too."

**TLA**

Stiles couldn't help but feel like he was about to make history. Alan Deaton's house? Werewolf guru, supernatural extraordinaire, mysterious shade, the great and powerful Oz himself. His house was probably full of witchcraft and wizardry. It probably looked like Hogwarts threw up inside. It was-

Boring.

Dr. Alan Deaton's house was in the suburbs of uptown Beacon Hills, surrounded by a white picket fence, painted a warm shade of pale yellow. There were shutters on the windows, a swing on the porch, a tabby cat lazily stretched before greeting them when they reached the steps.

"Are you really surprised?" the vet questioned, smiling as he twisted the key in the lock.

Stiles thought about it, and no. He shouldn't be surprised. The doc was always full of surprises; of course his house would be another. He smiled in return and reached down to pet the cat when it sniffed his leg curiously. It hissed at him before darting away.

"Don't worry," Deaton said, leading the way inside. "He just doesn't recognize your scent. You're no longer human. Don't forget."

Forget? He didn't even know that he should have been worried about it. He wasn't _human_ anymore? He figured being a "Returned" might make him a little more than human or something, but not a human at all? Lessons needed to start right now.

He followed the vet into the living room, and the house was just as boring inside as outside.

"I don't like to bring my work home with me," the doc said. He pulled his jacket off and dropped it on the couch. "I have a spare bedroom you can use. I also have some of Scott's clothes that he leaves at the office and forgets about. You can use them."

Scott. The pack. He'd been so concerned with his dad and Derek that he'd forgotten about the rest of them. A warm hand landed on his shoulder. "Everyone is good. They've all graduated and settled back here in town. Scott is still the alpha. You will all celebrate this one day."

Stiles offered a small smile because he appreciated the fact that Deaton was being so hopeful about the whole thing. But he was gone for six months. He was _dead_ for six months. If his dad and Derek were any indication, the pack had already accepted this. They were moving on. Could he really do this to them?

They were getting along without him on the one hand, and he didn't want to reopen or cut any old wounds. On the other hand, he was alive. Human or not, he was alive. He was breathing. He remembered the thumping of his heart when he woke up in his grave. He could move. He could see. He could feel.

Maybe they _had_ moved on. Maybe they would all react like his dad and Derek. Maybe they would be angry with him. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Life was nothing but maybes, and he'd already lost it once. Selfish or not, right or not, human or not.... He was alive, dammit, and he was going to live.

And living involved the pack. It involved making sure his dad ate green things every once in a while. It involved kissing Derek awake when he had to go to work. It involved kicking Scott's ass in Call of Duty or any video game really. It involved getting his ass handed to him when Kira tried to teach him the basics of blade work, or being laid out on his back when Malia wanted to try her own hand at training him. It involved being bullied into doing Erica's nails or doing Isaac's laundry.

Let them be upset. Let them be angry. Let them be anything, but he wasn't going to leave them again.

**TLA**

That night Derek stayed in his human form. It was the first time in four months. The first two months after Stiles' death he only managed to keep his human shape because people would always call and visit him randomly. Not just the pack but his neighbors and random townspeople. Apparently the entirety of Beacon Hills knew of his and Stiles' relationship and wanted to offer him some sort of comfort. Part of it was Stiles being the Sheriff's son and all, but he knew most of it was just Stiles. The human made an impact on people just being in the same room with them. He was loud, happy, talkative... You couldn't _not_ notice him.

Not to mention all of the odd jobs he did around town, from babysitting to squirrel catching. Even the surprisingly large supernatural community in Beacon Hills had him doing odd little jobs for them. Vampire dentistry, hex undoing, curse casting, and a large variable of other things. He never noticed how important he was.

So for the first two months after the funeral Derek didn't know when to expect a random visit from someone. However, he couldn't keep it up for much longer. One night on the full moon he just didn't shift back. He wanted to but his wolf was having none of it. Everything was easier as a wolf. He didn't cry, he didn't have to speak, he didn't have to be around people, he didn't have to do anything if he didn't want to. He didn't even have to fix any meals. If he could he wouldn't have breathed.

The second Stiles died he had felt it. It was like the world stopped, like his very being crashed into a concrete wall. That's how his mom had described it when she lost his dad. For a horrifying second she thought their car had been hit by another driver, that Derek and his sister in the back were in hurt and she couldn't do anything about it. But their car was fine. It was only her who felt the painful pressure of her mate leaving this world. The only reason she hadn't broken down was him and his sister. She was not only the alpha but a mother. The pack needed her. Her children had needed her.

Derek wasn't the alpha. He didn't have any children. He didn't have anyone that needed him. Not anymore. He couldn't handle the pain, not as well as his wolf could. So he shifted. Instead of running to his own apartment, the one he was going to share with Stiles, he went to the Sheriff's house. He whined at the door until the man let him in, smelling of Scotch and cigarette smoke, looking about as good as Derek felt.

Four months later and he was in his human form again.

He hadn't told the Sheriff this, couldn't really speak all that well after months of not using his voice, but the empty ache he'd felt since Stiles' death at dimmed. It no longer felt like a raw, open wound. It felt like a scar that had healed over. Like a scar he'd soon write off to just a memory.

The Stiles-shaped hole that had been cut into his soul was now filled.

The wolf inside of him that had been pacing and howling in pain for six months was now curled up contentedly around the memory of seeing its mate again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty! What do you think now? Let me know! 
> 
> Keep talking to me so I keep being inspired to work on this! Comments = updates! Kudos are almost as good as comments! I'm going to work on some homework and then start the next installment!


	3. Chapter 3

**TLA**

Stiles rolled over in the unfamiliar sheets and stretched his stiff muscles. Deaton had told him to expect it after six months of being a corpse. He sat up and rolled his shoulders, popping his neck. Something smelled delicious.

Did the good doctor make breakfast?

There's no way.

He happily jumped from the bed, stumbling when his legs decided to give up on him. That was to be expected apparently. Until his body got used to working again he would have to be careful. No driving, no operating heavy machinery, etc. It had been like reading the warning label on the back of a box of medicine. ' **Warning:** Do not get ahead of yourself when you've just come back from the dead.'

When his legs decided to work properly he followed his nose to the kitchen to see what the doc had cooked up.

"Good morning, Stiles," the man said, sipping a cup of coffee at the table. There was no food in sight. Weird.

Stiles waved and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. He could still smell the mouth-watering food. Did his brain and senses have to get used to working again too? Did coming back to life make him crazy? He flushed when his stomach growled loudly.

Deaton laughed. "You would be hungry, I guess, after six months without food." He stood and walked to the fridge. When he opened the door, the delicious scent that Stiles had been sniffing hit him right in the nose. His mouth watered hungrily.

To his horror, Deaton turned around with plate of spoiled meat. It was a sketchy grayish brown color. Stiles could remember what it was supposed to smell like: bad, gross, disgusting, rotten, but it didn't. It smelled amazing. His stomach protested loudly when he ran across the kitchen to get away.

"This is all your body will eat now, Stiles," the vet said as he placed the disgusting plate on the counter. "It's one of the downsides of being brought back to life. You've left the realm of the living and have been brought back. Therefore, living food will no longer sustain you. You can try, but you won't like it." He walked to the coffee pot and poured another cup. "Do you like coffee?"

Stiles moved closer to the vet and did his best to ignore the horrifyingly appetizing rotten meat on the counter. He nodded his head.

Deaton handed him the cup. "Try it. It's one of the only things you can actually enjoy that hasn't begun to decay."

The Returned grabbed the cup greedily and took a large gulp. He didn't even care if it scalded him. He wasn't going to eat rotten meat, dammit. He would just live off of coffee. Surprisingly, despite the steam rising from the mug he didn't feel a burn. It was a pleasant warmth that slid down his throat.

"I've phoned Scott to tell him that something has come up so I won't be coming in today." He returned to the table and sat back down. "I've told you a few things about your new life but as you just found out you don't know everything. Unfortunately, because of the rarity of the Returned, even my knowledge is limited. This will be a learning process."

Stiles nodded and tried not to cry as he sipped on his coffee. He was really hungry but he was _not_ eating that old meat.

And he wanted his dad.

And he really wanted Derek.

Six months without touching Derek. Without hugging him. Without cuddling him. Without kissing him. Without.... Without even being near him? He was more than happy that these past six months were nothing in his memory. The only thing he could remember was the pain. That's it.

He can't imagine what everyone else had been going through.

**TLA**

For the first time in half a year, Derek didn't regret waking up. Usually a heavy weight bogged him down, a dark depression that refused to let him go. But not today. He felt like the weight of the world had been taken off of his shoulders.

He listened as the Sheriff moved around the house to get ready for work. Derek hopped up from Stiles' bed and made it hurriedly. He walked down the stairs to greet the man. "Good morning, Sheriff."

The older man looked up from his cup of coffee and his paper. "It's nice to see you on two legs again," he replied. "Coffee?" He'd made too much again.

Derek poured himself a cup of simple black coffee and waited for it to cool. "I'm going to talk to my boss today," he said. "And I'm going to clean my apartment." The 'for Stiles' was absent but loud and clear.

"Derek-"

"John."

They looked at each other quietly for awhile until Derek broke the silence. "I'm confused too," he started, "I've never heard of this happening before. But Stiles is back. I can feel it. It's like the world has started spinning again. I can feel the ground beneath my feet. It's real. _He's_ real."

The Sheriff stared into the sincere and determined green eyes of the werewolf before he nodded. "Okay, Derek," he said. "Okay."

It was quiet after that. They finished their coffee and the Sheriff left for work. Derek was sure the man was just humoring him, but he couldn't feel it. He was only human. Human connections were no less powerful than wolf ones, but they were harder to notice. If he could feel it, he would probably notice the difference now too. Stiles was back. Their worlds were no longer shattered.

Derek locked the door behind him when he left. It was the first time he'd used the key the Sheriff had given him all those months ago. (A wolf couldn't exactly unlock a door). He didn't have his car so he would have to run, but as a man today. A lot of people seemed pleased to see him as he ran by. He still wasn't used to it.

The first thing he needed to do was take a shower. Then, he could dust everything and empty out the fridge. His apartment smelled like a compost. He hadn't even thought about the food in his fridge or the fruit on the counter. Stiles would kill him if he came home to this.

But first-shower.

**TLA**

Stiles tightened the borrowed scarf around his neck and the bottom half of his face. He was grateful for the brisk wind so he had an excuse to wear the thing. Actually, his natural body temp was much lower now and Deaton said he would often feel slightly chilled. He wasn't too bothered by the thought. When he finally convinced Derek to give him a chance again then he could use his werewolf boyfriend's extra body heat to warm up. Perfect plan.

Because he _was_ going to have Derek again. He wasn't going to give up. He wasn't going to allow the broody werewolf to let him go so easily. Stiles Stilinski was not going down without a fight.

Although.... He wished he could remember if he _had_ gone down without a fight or not. He really hoped that his death had at least been a little bit of a struggle.

Deaton said his memories may never come back.

He was almost okay with that.

He jingled the stolen car keys nervously in his pocket. Deaton would forgive him, probably, for taking his car. It's not like he should be surprised. He just left his keys lying right there in Stiles' face. After saying an offhand comment about going to read in his room for a while. It was practically an invitation to take the car.

Wait.

This is Deaton. That _was_ an invitation to take his car. Sneaky bastard!

Stiles looked up at his old house and shook his head. Deaton had to be a mind reader or something. And he was real fucking trusting to let a newly living corpse drive his car. Eh, he could probably voodoo himself a new car or something.

The Returned looked around the flower bed until he found the rock that marked his hidden house key. He was glad that he was so forgetful sometimes or else they never would have hid a spare key. He just needed to run in and grab his key-chain so he could go to the apartment and grab some of his own clothes. Plus, he could steal one of Derek's scarves that Isaac was always giving him. His dad _and_ Derek should be at work so he was good to go.

He tried not to go any further into the house than he needed to. The bowl of keys was still by the door (another reason he was glad that he'd been so forgetful. If he didn't see his keys when he walked out then he probably wouldn't grab them). He snatched the dusty keys from the bowl and locked the door behind him.

He had a busy day planned and getting lost in the nostalgia of being in his old house would seriously put a damper on things.

First things first, clothes. Then food, and he wanted to find his Jeep. It wasn't in the driveway. Maybe it was at Derek's house. They were in the process of moving in together six months ago. He got the apartment's decal for his Jeep and everything (a $60 boot on his car? No, thanks). The point is, all of his favorite clothes were at the apartment so he needed to go over there. Even if any of the clothes in his house would be just fine. Or Scott's clothes at Deaton's for that matter.

No. It had to be his favorite clothes.

And if he wanted to maybe kind of hopefully possibly run into anyone then nobody would know but him.

He climbed into Deaton's boring white _car_ of all things (not even a truck or SUV) and made his way to the apartment complex he had helped Derek scope out. It was a nice little place on the edge of the woods, just over the bridge and down a few blocks. It had a certain charm about it, like you don't know how awesome it is until you actually go inside. A lot like Derek. Without the going inside part. But like, rough on the outside with warm-fuzzy insides.

Whatever. It fits, Derek; that's all that matters. And a few months ago it was going to fit the both of them. Hopefully, it still would.

Everything was fine until he reached the stoplight before the bridge. His body stopped listening to him and instead of hitting the brakes he hit the gas. Hard. It literally felt like he was hit by a truck. Because he was. Deaton was totally going to kill him if the wreck didn't do the job for him.

The little white car he was in stood no chance. The much larger truck slammed into him and actually hit his car towards the edge of the bridge and down the slope into the water. It was all so quick. Bam! Glass, metal, rolling, water.

Somehow he wasn't hurt. He felt fine, but he needed to get the hell out of there. There would be questions and police. His dad would probably show up. No, no, no. This was messing with his plans. He hurriedly unbuckled and struggled into the cold water, going under as soon as he could and letting the current carry him away.

Actually, this had happened to him once before, sans car accident. Some hunters thought they would throw the resident human off the bridge and see if he could fly. No, but he could swim. It hurt like hell when he hit the water, and he bruised a lot of bones, but he let the current carry him into the woods where he knew the pack would find him.

No one would be looking for him now, but he knew his way around the forest. He was a big boy. Plus, he could still make it to the apartment; he'd just be a little wet. Derek probably wouldn't mind a few soggy footprints when he got home later.

When he surfaced he was out of the view of the road and any onlookers, and he was surprised to see how far he'd gone. Wow, he could really hold his breath! Was it a side effect of being dead? Super lung power? Cool!

He pulled himself out of the water and tried not to shiver. It was really cold. His scarf had fallen down but it didn't really matter because it was useless. It was like a heavy water-logged snake around his neck. He kept it though; it was bad enough he'd destroyed Deaton's car. He could at least hold on to the man's scarf.

If he remembered correctly, the apartment complex was straight ahead and a little to the left. It should be like a ten minute walk at the most.

He was right! He resisted the urge to fist pump the empty air. This is when he needs Scott for a good fist bump of bros.

All in good time.

He did his best to sneak around the buildings. He didn't need anyone to stop him or recognize him. He had no idea what he was supposed to do about that can of worms. He couldn't exactly just tell the entirety of Beacon Hills that he'd come back from the dead.

It would be best to just not think about it.

Why was coming back to life so complicated? It was never this hard in the movies!

_Stiles_ , he scolded himself, _focus_.

He pulled the keys from his pocket (hooray for pockets!) and looked around the side of the last building, the one closest to the woods. It was the one Derek had chosen. He didn't see anyone so he zoomed over to apartment 408 (Derek swore up and down that the numbers were just a coincidence- that they "just happened" to correspond with Stiles' birthday) and let himself inside.

The first thing he noticed was the smell. It smelled like Deaton's house this morning all over again. His stomach growled loudly. Uh-oh. This didn't bode well for the state of the apartment.

He walked carefully down the short hall-like entryway until he reached the kitchen. There was dust everywhere. There was a bowl of rotten fruit on the counter. There was a moldy loaf of bread next to the toaster. He was sure if he opened the fridge then he would find who knows what inside. He sighed heavily and unwrapped the soggy scarf from his neck and tossed it in the sink. Clothes would have to wait. Derek was _not_ going to come home to this mess. He pulled out the box of trash bags from under the sink and got to work, only breathing through his mouth.

Was it bad that he was kind of happy? It hurt that Derek had been hurting enough to not even take care of the apartment, but he couldn't help but feel pleased that he had been missed. Was that bad? He felt-

"Stiles?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment! I work faster when I hear what you guys think! :D And Kudos! :D :D :D But you can't leave more than one Kudos so leave all the comments! :D :D :D And share this with your friends! My dream is to have a super popular story on here! Help make my dream come true!

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo....? You like? Let me know!
> 
> And I know that I have other things to work on! And I totally am!!!!


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